


The Demons Will Take Me Down With Them

by crysgen78



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Mental Health Issues, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crysgen78/pseuds/crysgen78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DI Joseph Chandler is a complicated man with a good team. Can he overcome his personal issues in order to make a life for himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Demons Will Take Me Down With Them

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alizarin_nyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/gifts).



> Oh, Yuletide 2011 recipient, I hope this is to your liking. I love Whitechapel and in particular Chandler's character mainly because he's slightly broken. I had something else planned in my head but because I waited until the last minute to write anything, as per usual, this came out a bit more abrupt as I wanted. I may go back and re-visit the fic and give Joe a bit more back story than I allowed with this. Also, because I waited until the last minute, I did not have time to have this Brit-picked, so hopefully, there aren't too many Americanisms in it. Regardless, I hope it at least is enjoyed. Happy Yuletide Alizarin_NYC.

He had lost track of how much time he had been sitting in the shower floor, fully clothed. Miles had come and gone after trying to cajole and then finally chastise his DI into doing what was right which was backing up his men. He knew this, but he still couldn’t make himself move. Cazenove’s blood and tissue had sluiced off his skin and trickled down the drain below him. Christ, just thinking about the brain matter that had hit his face made him want to scrub at his skin until his own blood ran down the drain.

Joe didn’t have a problem with blood in and of itself. When DS Miles had been stabbed, he’d staunched the flow with his own hands. He had kept his own bare hands placed over the gaping wound, feeling the blood gush out in time with Ray Miles’ heartbeat. With each sticky pulse, his DS became paler and it seemed an eternity for the emergency crews to arrive and then they took over and whisked the fallen man to hospital. He was too busy immediately after to realize that his hands were still covered in Miles’ blood and that they were drying to a flaky brown. They began to itch and that was when he wanted to wipe his hands on his trousers, not that it did much good.

Perhaps it was the combination of the blood and his fear for himself that was inspiring his current uselessness. He’d closed his eyes, not wanting to see his own death come at him in the form of a bullet. Then he’s heard a shot and felt something wet and warm hit his face. Opening his eyes and seeing Cazenove’s body on the floor, he’d felt dull as it had taken him a full horrified minute of staring at the dead body before he truly realized what had happened. He hadn’t followed procedure and made a statement of facts. He’d straightaway gone to the showers, flipped on the water and sank to the floor under the spray.

This was the second time he’d been up against a gun in as many days. The stress was getting to him.

That was how Miles had found him and later, after he’d said his piece, left him. The disappointment in the room settled over him like a shroud. Turning his head, he focused on the wall tiles at his back, and began to count, one, two, three, and four. Numbers were steady, knowable, quantifiable, and the act of counting helped calm him. They also ensnared him, caught him up in the routine, the method of counting so that there was little room to think on anything else. These were his demons.

Re-focus. Re-value. He knew he had to do this if he was ever to drag himself up from the floor. Re-focus. His men needed him. They were going into a dangerous situation without him. Re-value. Their lives meant more to him than anything else at this moment even his own. He’d already lost a man to this damn case. He’d had to look his widow in the eyes, his two young, beautiful children. Think about them, re-focus. Do something productive, and help the men he still had.

He dragged himself up, and stepped out of the shower stall. He needed to pull himself together and do his job. Meeting his men to take down the Krays gave him one of the most peaceful feelings he’d ever had in his life. Maybe he did belong in this world after all. Then it all went pear-shaped. The twins were dead and he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t just made a deal with the devil in exchange for interesting cases. At least it was with a devil he knew and that was as much comfort he thought he’d get in this situation.

That wasn’t quite true. He’d gotten his team out of this, and despite all the missteps, which was something he could take comfort in. They’d miss McCormack, but they would crack on together as a team if he could do anything about it.

He thought about his men. DS Miles who seemed like an old school copper that would never rise above that pay grade due in part to attitude. He was an odd dichotomy in character. He was gruff, had a bad attitude, and looked on any new way of thinking with suspicion. On the other hand, he had brilliant instincts, was unflinchingly kind to women whether they were prostitutes or medical examiners, and kept trying to get his DI to bring his “partner” to one of the team’s dinners. That surprised and warmed him at the same time. He was glad to have a team that watched each other’s backs, but he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he wasn’t gay. It was far more complicated than that.

He’d had a girlfriend when he was younger. Sweet, petite, ginger thing she was. They’d spend lazy Sunday afternoons fitted into each other’s sides reading newspapers and magazines. In the beginning, she hadn’t thought that the fact he wasn’t pushing for a more physical relationship strange. Then days became weeks, and weeks became months. The curiosity in her eyes became hurt, and the hurt turned into resentment. He ended it, and she graciously let him end it without a fuss. He’d attended her wedding a few years ago and received holiday cards chronicling the happy couple, and then happy family complete with fat, smiling, bald baby on the cover. Each one had the same message written across the back, “You could have this, too, Joe, if you tried. For your own sake, please try.” He was sure her husband didn’t know of this message.

Then, there had been the boyfriend he’d tried to keep. There was no waiting for something more physical. Men, Joe had found, were more demanding than women. At first, Joe’s constant need to remove himself from bed right away to shower had been a source of amusement, then consternation, then finally, anger. That ending had not gone with as little fuss as his girlfriend’s had. He did not receive holiday cards from this ex either.

Now, there was the matter of Emerson Kent, which would infinitely complicate matters further. He needed to apologize properly, that much he knew. But he also didn’t want to lead the young man on. As socially inept as he was, even he could see the hero worship behind Kent’s eyes. He’d broken some of that with his accusation, but Kent was so young and he forgave so easily. It was hard not to want more with him. Joe snorted, that would be fantastic. He was sure that this would appeal to Miles’ inner romantic, but Joe was sure it would turn out to be an utter disaster. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could handle it when it all fell apart. That eventuality was the only outcome he could see. How could you possibly explain to your lover that you were content with a cuddle on the couch and too much else, while nice at the time, filled you with dread and brought out your worst behavior. Best to just leave it alone and let Kent’s doe-eyed self find another fixation.

His phone rang. Picking it up, he heard his DS on the other end, “Sir, we’ve caught one. Body’s been found in a barrel. You want me to run by yours and pick you up on the way there?”

“Yes, Miles, that would be lovely, thanks. I’ll be waiting out front.” He pocketed his keys, phone and wallet. Everything had a place, everything in its place. He was ready.

The End.


End file.
